


A State of Nirvana

by KadeAK (zacixn)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Healing, Mentioned Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Recovery, Resurrected Wilbur Soot, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Isolation, Wilbur Soot-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29524689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacixn/pseuds/KadeAK
Summary: "Darkness beat at the spiraling pathways of the now-decrepit ravine, leaking through the cracks in the walls and pooling between the floor’s wooden planks. A fresh chill swept down the now-disused pathways, curling around the extended corridors and piercing the heart of the fallen commune.Being resurrected was a curse more than it was a gift. The afterlife had been like a sedative, nulling the pain of loss, and allowing Wilbur to finally reach a pseudo-sleep. Perhaps it had been stained by the company he was forced to keep, but compared to life, it was bliss. Wilbur thought that numbing unknowing might have been the closest he’d ever come to reaching a state of nirvana."--After being resurrected against his will, Wilbur escapes in the night to live in Pogtopia. There, he hopes to finally heal from the setting that once broke him.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 112





	1. Nirvana

**Author's Note:**

> I just think that Alivebur should be allowed to heal before he is forced into a redemption arc. I mean, come on, his mental state at the end of his life was awful. I know you want someone to yell at Phil but Wilbur is more than Tommy's "protector" LOL.

With L’Manberg finally eradicated, there was only one home waiting for Wilbur, now. Perhaps it was only fitting that the fallen leader should be condemned to rest in his own fallen rebellion.

Darkness beat at the spiraling pathways of the now-decrepit ravine, leaking through the cracks in the walls and pooling between the floor’s wooden planks. A fresh chill swept down the now-disused pathways, curling around the extended corridors and piercing the heart of the fallen commune.

Being resurrected was a curse more than it was a gift. The afterlife had been like a sedative, nulling the pain of loss, and allowing Wilbur to finally reach a pseudo-sleep. Perhaps it had been stained by the company he was forced to keep, but compared to life, it was bliss. Wilbur thought that numbing unknowing might have been the closest he’d ever come to reaching a state of nirvana.

Now, he was stuck alive, in a word that did not want him, and he was paying the price for it. Reality seemed to cave at his very touch, recoiling from his spoiled fingertips. Even the dancing flames of his torches would cave away from his presence, flickering and sputtering to a halt if he dared to touch too closely. 

His family didn’t want him, either. Despite all of his earlier self-confidence, Tommy had taken one look at him and run away, back to his hotel and his business and his home. Though Phil guided him out of the prison cell with some degree of genuine care, Wilbur could identify the tension radiating off of his father’s form. Hell, Fundy hadn’t even shown up, entirely avoidant of his once-father.

They wanted him to be the old Wilbur. The Wilbur who was a leader, who was kind and untainted by War. He hadn’t had the heart to admit that their Wilbur died long, long ago, even before the Election results fell. Though Phil and Techno tried to welcome him into their cabin, and they treated him with kindness, he could tell they were waiting for something - a conversation, perhaps, or an admission of guilt?

Perhaps Phil was waiting for him to leap to Tommy’s defense, and chew his ear off for being a bad parental figure, and maybe Techno was waiting for him to eagerly leap into his spiraled nonsense, spitting vitriol about the doomed fate of his nation. They both wanted things he could no longer provide - a spark of fury, or a hint of rage.  
Wilbur’s rage had died alongside him, with the explosion of his nation. Now, much like the crater left behind, all that was left of it was the empty remains. He was a husk, empty and useless - a dead weight to reality.

So, Wilbur left for his revolution in the dead of night. Better to save them the long-term disappointment, no? 

Weeds had grown over the once-smooth entrance, fronds of wildgrass obscuring the now-settled dirt. Wilbur pushed it aside with little effort despite the trembling touch of his fingers, gently settling it back into place.

The descent down into the belly of the ravine was somehow more treacherous than before, rugged stone clipping into the previously well maintained spiral staircase. Wilbur clung to the sides of the wall, his breath misting in front of him as he clung to the perilous staircases. Somehow, he found he still didn’t fear the drop. Perhaps he never could find the energy to. 

Oil lanterns swung lazily overhead, void of fuel. Despite his late self’s instabilities, re-lighting the lanterns had always been his own duty - not that Tommy had ever known. Whenever Wilbur couldn’t sleep, he found himself in the main corridors, tending to the fires with trembling fingers and hushed whispers. Sometimes, he would burn himself - Wilbur had always been too cold to notice the pain, though.

His fingers twitched at the memory, curling at the tips. He hadn’t held a match in months, though he missed the feeling of control. Perhaps, with due time, he could get back into the routine. The oil lanterns always managed to make Pogtopia feel less lonely.  
Buttons lined the room, sunken into the wall with varying levels of ferocity. None of them were even, cracks in the stone emphasising the most buried ones. Of course the Pogtopians had assumed Wilbur had laid them out - hell, Wilbur even believed them for a moment. He still wasn’t sure of their origin, their very presence mocking him as he walked. The button would never leave him, apparently, the instrument of doom lurking his every footsteps.

Maybe that was only fitting of a traitor. Wilbur wondered if Eret’s own button haunted them at night, too. He elected to overlook them for now, ignoring the chills running down his spine at the thought of one of his resurrectors. That was a trauma for another day, another week, another year- hell, maybe never. Wilbur never wanted to ever think of it again.

As the loner re-lit the lanterns that lined the wall, more of the ravine became bathed in light, the warm orange hues spilling down the cold stone pathways. Many rooms were carved into the stone, each of them dark and abandoned - once upon a time, they’d all been occupied, filled with the buzzing cheer of the incoming revolution. 

Wilbur had never really claimed one, preferring to “rest” in the aboveground alcove. He could never stomach the feeling of claustrophobia the Final Control Room left him with, the enclosed stone walls slightly too restrictive for his tastes. Though he’d tried to remedy his own fear with the construction of the Button Room, in the end, he was never free from the memory.

Perhaps that could change now, Wilbur thought. His old revolution room was far too cold now, littered with papers of scrawled plans and hastily-written diaries. He could start afresh, recapture his traumas by the helm, and maybe become a man who deserved to live.

Wilbur sucked in a deep breath, before entering one of the rooms and lighting its torch in one movement. There was no looking back now - he was in this world, whether he liked it or not. Ghostbur had given his life so that he could save the server. And, well, if he was going to do anything - he needed to save himself, first.

Maybe, with due time, in this old forgotten rebellion, Wilbur could find a newer and truer state of Nirvana.


	2. Lanterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Impulse continuation! I don't know how long this will go but please enjoy what I have to offer.
> 
> TW for This Chapter Only:  
> \- Brief description of Wilbur's death (in some degree of detail, feeling wise).

As it would turn out, Wilbur’s recovery needed more than time.

Wilbur woke up with a start on the second night into his revival, the bedsheets clinging to his form uncomfortably as he tried to wrangle his way out of the tangled duvet in a shaky heap. A blend of nausea struck him suddenly, tilting the world on its side in the haze of sleepiness, and Wilbur had to squeeze his eyes shut in order to combat the sensation.

He could’ve sworn in the moment that he heard voices overhead - scheming whispers, dead-set on hunting him down and dragging him out into the sunlight. They were the same whispers he’d heard during his spiral, his disgraceful tumble from glory.

“You aren’t safe. It’s not safe here. Pogtopia isn’t safe.”  
And though Wilbur knew to ignore the god-forsaken voices, the messengers of sky deities he once blasphemed, he could not help but listen to them in the absence of any meaningful noise. 

God, Wilbur wished he had a guitar - his guitar, even - to fill the silences with. The ambient noises of midnight Pogtopia seemed to ramp up in their cacophonous volume, washing over him in a chilling blaze, and Wilbur couldn’t help but shudder at their sounds, one hand absent-mindedly rising to tangle itself loosely in his unruly nest of hair. 

Phil would come looking for him soon, wouldn’t he? Phil, and Techno, and Tommy, and -- well, maybe not Tommy, but his father might at least, desperate to hear things that Wilbur would never say. He’d been brought back for a reason, and the people would never let him forget that reason, so if there was any a time to speedrun this therapy thing, it was now, but - but, it wasn’t working, and Wilbur found himself panting awake in bed, half-panicked in the wake of his ruined sleep.

It was a miracle that he’d even been able to fall asleep in the first place - Wilbur had never been known for his excellent sleeping habits. Hell, if he remembered rightly, not even Ghostbur had been good at sleeping, persistently staying awake for days on end to complete the reconstruction of L’Manberg (even when his spectral form demanded recharging).

He’d assumed that a good sleep schedule would put him on a fast track to just... being better. Wilbur had never been the pinnacle of mental health, not even in the “prime” of his life. Depression, PTSD, and paranoia were three terms that he’d grown used to as the President of a nation doomed to eat itself alive, and though Wilbur had thought he would mature out of it half a year ago, well.

...That hadn’t been the case, to put it lightly.

Still, though, sleep would probably solve a lot of Wilbur’s problems. Maybe he could stop feeling like a zombie if he slept more, or chase away the persistent ache in his bones. Maybe he could get his heart to stop racing, or his hands to stop shaking, or his mind to stop worrying. Sleep was the first step to getting better, right?

Wrong, apparently. 

Wilbur’s death haunted him. 

He clutched at his chest weakly, a shuddering breath rippling through his body. He could still remember his death, clear as day. Phil’s sword - sharpened to perfection, the pinnacle of a hero’s weapon - had pierced him, just like a hot knife going through butter. It had burned, raw like fire, the wound jagged and bloody and searing to the touch.

(Fire Aspect, Wilbur remembered sourly. The sword had Fire Aspect. He’d put it there on purpose, thinking it would end it all quicker. His body would never let him forget.)

Over and over and over again, his mind replayed the same damning moments, pausing and rewinding like a sadistic VHS tape.

(“Phil,” Wilbur had said, snapping his father out of his talking. “You need to kill me.” His body felt fuzzy, his limbs like stone encased in ice. His ears rang with incoherent thoughts, hardly calmed by the detonation of his creation.)

Wilbur wanted to change. He wanted to live. He wanted - God, he wanted to get better. But the burden of remembering was heavy, and he was paying the price for his newfound consciousness.

(“Kill me, Phil. Kill me. Killza. Kill me.” Wilbur kept going, his words barely registering in his mind as he spoke them. “End me. Stab me. Leave me to bleed and die.”)

His dreams had never been vivid before his death. At most, they’d been feelings, brushes of sensations and motivations that did nothing but spur his mind forward and inspire new emotion. Now, they were entire scenes, overspilling with too much colour and information and details and --

(Every breath felt like inhaling sand, the blood lining his throat and pouring out of his nose and mouth. Wilbur shuddered in Phil’s grasp, staining his shoulder and his front red as he clasped on tightly. Phil held him silently, solemn as he felt his pulse weaken gradually.)

\-- and then, nothing. Death was nothing. It was not the warmth Wilbur wanted, or the satisfactory ending he’d craved. It was - an abrupt end, a period of the senseless void, and then - and then -  
And then, it was everything, and Wilbur was back, and suddenly, he had a second chance.

Wilbur stood up, shaking the bedsheets off carelessly and moving to shrug on his coat once more. If sleep wasn’t going to be his friend, that was okay - Wilbur wasn’t going to force it to keel at his hand. Instead, he left his room, shutting the door he’d made earlier behind him, and looked upon the ravineways of Pogtopia.

Like clockwork, he took a ladder, some oil, and his matches from the chest he used to keep them in, and ascended to the suspended lanterns, unhooking them with gentle fingers. They swayed in the wind, slow and gentle as if they were asleep, and Wilbur re-lit them one by one, watching as their soft orange flicker breathed life into the once-cold passageways of his home.

They’d once been dead too, Wilbur thought. Lifeless and dark, they’d swung from their hook with nothing to keep alight. They’d died with their purpose on the same day as Wilbur, doomed to forever hang empty and unused.  
Despite having outlived their usefulness, though, Wilbur had cared to take a match to them and revive them, bringing them back from the dead. Though their oil fuel had run empty over the months, and their re-lighting took great effort and incredible precision, they shone just as beautifully as they had before - if not brighter.

Wilbur watched the lanterns sway in the breeze, happily re-lit with their dancing flames of life.  
Maybe one day, he could be just like them.

Suddenly struck by exhaustion from the physical exertion, Wilbur yawned widely, swaying softly where he stood. The lights of the lanterns brought warmth with them, and so he shrugged his jacket off again, taking one of the lit ones with him to his room and once again shutting the door behind him. Hanging it from a hook in the ceiling, the light poured into the room, illuminating Wilbur’s few belongings in its loving hold.

This time, instead of laying awake for hours, he fell into his own bed, limbs cold and listless like stone.  
When the dark embrace of sleep swept over Wilbur’s mind, instead of cold memories, he found he dreamt of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lanterns are lovely, aren't they?


	3. Potatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur plans his next steps. The next steps remind him of his pseudo-brother.

Fully submerged within the earth, the ravines of Pogtopia seemed to avoid the searching reaches of the sun, its winding pathways completely removed from the standard day and night cycle the rest of the server operated on. 

Wilbur woke up in his bed to the same warm glow he’d fallen asleep to, and though he was sure he’d experienced at least a good few hours of dreamless sleep, he found it impossible to verify that. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed, before sitting up in his bed.

Now he was living here alone, full time, he’d have to start being a little more proactive about his own survival. Back in the rebellion, even when he hadn’t had the energy to eat, or clean, or cook, someone else would take up the role for him, almost forcing him to stay alive. Now, he didn’t have that luxury. The cost of living fell entirely on his on shoulders.

Perhaps it was better this way. He rummaged through the supplies for the last of the paper and a barely-working quill and some scraps of inc, smoothing out the pages on a crafting table. Wilbur’s body craved activity - now he was corporeal, he could not stand the idea of sitting idly and wasting away. So, he might as well find a way to make life worthwhile.

TO-DO LIST, he wrote out in bold lettering, the first few strokes shakier than he would have liked. It’d been months since Wilbur had last written with dexterity, the finer motor skills of his fingers nearly lost to the constant trembling that his own failing mental state brought. He still trembled now, but he focused, determined to keep the writing steady.

Now.. what was most important? What did Wilbur need to do?

\- Replant small potato farm. Cook remaining stock.  
Wilbur wasn’t sure how well potatoes kept over months of storage, but at least a few had to be edible, right? If they weren’t, he could easily replant the few he had, and simply suffer through a bit of hunger until he was steady enough to find more food. 

\- Find cows, find chickens. Kill some for feathers and leather. Keep them down here for milk and eggs.  
More stock related goals, Wilbur thought. His fingers twitched at the idea of handling animals again. Though he’d never been the exploration type, Phil had taught him how to effectively use every part of an animal should he ever need to. A single cow might last him for weeks, if he remembered everything. 

\- Find sheep. Make new clothes.  
Wilbur looked down at the trenchcoat that clung to his frame. Though the blood that stained it was dry, it was blood nonetheless. Even the shirt underneath was soaked through with coal and blood and dirt of its own, rancid to smell. After a second thought, Wilbur added “wash” on the end of the bullet point.

\- Chop down wood. Replenish firewood stock. Fix stairs and paths.  
While not absolutely mandatory - Pogtopia wasn’t falling down, by any means - it was pretty vital. Wilbur knew that Pogtopia’s current hardware stock wouldn’t last forever, and so he ought to keep everything well-kept for a little while longer.

\- Make journal. Write in it daily.  
Wilbur paused on that bullet point, before finalising it with its full stop at the end. Yeah, if he was going to get better, he should at least put some effort into it. Maybe addressing his thought patterns would encourage them to get a little healthier. Underneath it, he added an asterisk, “do this after the second point.”

The ink on the paper dried slowly, and Wilbur looked down on his lettering for a good few minutes. He hadn’t ever anticipated needing to think so far into the future for Pogtopia, always intending for his eventual demise. Now, he was preparing for his eventual resurrection. Though the majority of his soul seemed crushed by the realisation, a tiny speck lit up with hope.

Yeah, maybe this was do-able. The steps looked plausible to complete, Wilbur thought. He could do this.

After testing the ink, Wilbur pocketed the paper, headed towards the remnants of the potato farm. They’d left it unplanted in wake of the declaration of war, convinced their supplies of potatoes would last them well up until the fight finally hit. They were right, of course - Pogtopia became obsolete after the blast, a bitter memory that nobody wanted to visit. And so, the swathes of dirt became untouched, left to dust in the dark.

Now, they were a blessing. Water ran underneath the padded farmland, still hydrating the nutrient-rich soil. Despite its state of relative disrepair, it was still in a prime state for farming - not that Wilbur had ever been particularly adept at agriculture. Opening a chest nearby, Wilbur rummaged through it, producing a potato into the light. It was old, but the sealed container of the chest had kept it edible, surprisingly. A cursory glance to the rest of the chest revealed at least thirty more, all in a similar condition.

Wilbur felt his breath hitch as he laid eyes upon a trowel, left discarded alongside the vegetables. He picked it up with shaky hands, fingers brushing along a royal red scrap of fabric that had been braided around the handle.  
Ah. Technoblade.

Suddenly, his chest ached with lost fondness. Technoblade, his last ally. The one man who’d followed him to the ends of the earth, and struggled despite it. They’d been close in Pogtopia, even if Wilbur wasn’t quite stable enough to recognise that. Now, they were -- well.  
What were they?

He’d thought of Technoblade as a smart man, once, who understood the truths of the world. Techno seemed to understand his blight more than anyone else, sympathising with his losses and promising to assist him to the bitter and bloody end.  
And now, now that Wilbur knew that Technoblade kept going? That he fought until he was the strongest man alive and never stopped fighting? That he preached his message of corrupting power, and the message of violence, and immediately expected Wilbur to do the same?  
Wilbur’s grip on the trowel tightened as he thought of his old brother, eyes squeezing shut.

(“You could always join us, Wilbur,” Technoblade said, sharpening his sword. “You’re an okay guy, and the Syndicate could always use a good speaker. You know, even with L’Manberg gone, there’s tyranny in this server. Power corrupts, and it’s still doing that here. You could help us stop it.”

Wilbur had been speechless. He looked his old friend up and down, taking in the gleaming netherite armour and the greatsword strapped to his back. He looked confident, glorious in the light of the arctic sun. 

Though he knew nothing of the landscape then, Wilbur understood in that very moment that no man on the server stood any chances of competing with this conqueror. And though Technoblade had no real adversaries left, he worked to become stronger. More prepared. More powerful.

Power corrupts.)

Once upon a time, Wilbur and Technoblade had been like twins, brothers in arms in the wake of a world that rejected them. Now, Wilbur was alone, and his brother -- wasn’t his brother anymore. He felt his shoulders shake, body crumbling to the floor, and let out a slow breath, rubbing a gloved hand over one of his eyes uselessly. Squeezing them shut, he dropped the trowel, hiding his face in both of his hands.

(Technoblade, Technoblade, Technoblade.  
Why did you have to become such a hypocrite? I called you my brother - you called me yours. All I wanted was to stay with you forever.)

Once upon a time, Wilbur took solace in Techno’s farming, watching from afar as he toiled at the dirt for hours on end. They’d talk - anything to keep Wilbur’s mind off L’Manberg, else he’d go off the deep end! - and it was like home. Now, the idea of talking to Technoblade was -

(“You agree with me, don’t you, Wilbur? You said it yourself. I was right,” Technoblade said, as he tossed firewood into the fireplace. Wilbur sat beside it, huddled to the heat source as if he hadn’t been warm in years. 

“I… Agree with you on what?” he mumbled in reply, voice dull and rough from underuse. He still felt dazed, in shock from his resurrection, a doll leeched of all its life. Revival was draining, and Wilbur felt as if he was still struggling to piece the puzzle of his consciousness back together again.

“L’Manberg. It had to go. You get me, right?” He seemed to be searching for validation about something he’d done, searching Wilbur’s gaze for a shred of understanding. When they met eyes, though, all Wilbur saw was dull gray detachment. 

“I don’t think you’ll ever understand what I meant that day, Techno,” Wilbur said. At that, he turned to the fireplace again, slipping back into his silent world of thoughts. 

“Hey, you can’t just leave me hanging like that, man! What do you mean? Wilbur? Wilbur??”)

\- a little overwhelming, to say the least. So much had changed over the past four months. Could things ever be okay again? What was the point in trying, in writing lists, in doing anything, if people were doomed to change for the worse? Surely-

A striking pain in the stomach snapped Wilbur out of his mind, and he came to his senses again, eyes wet and breath heavy. He wiped his face, pulling his hands away from them in dazed shock. What was that? Had he been stabbed, or something? He clutched at his stomach, staring down in abject horror as it struck again.

Hunger. He was hungry. Right, he’d come here to fix the farm. Wilbur sucked in a breath through his teeth. It didn’t matter if there wasn’t a point to living, he supposed - dying to starvation sounded far too mundane a re-death to Wilbur. Maybe Technoblade would never care about him the same way again. Wilbur would have to learn to cope with that some other time.

For the time being, he had potatoes to plant, and potatoes to cook. He could deal with the memories they brought later. Picking up the trowel, Wilbur steadied his breath, before getting to his feet.

-

Wilbur looked upon the farm with a sweeping gaze, letting out a relieved sigh. He’d planted about thirty potatoes just in case, and though it had been back-breaking work, it had been oddly rewarding. 

Pocketing one of the spare potatoes, Wilbur turned and left to go and cook it. He wasn’t fond of the texture of baked potato much, but the meal would be plenty filling enough to keep him sustained for the day. Techno’s trowel rested in his other hand, somewhat muddier than before, but still in fine condition. Wilbur eyed it for a few moments, before putting it in his other pocket.

He didn’t want to cling to the past, but Wilbur found he could not throw away his old memories with Technoblade so easily. Maybe, in the future, he could heal enough to confront him again. Maybe they could change for the better, together.

Wilbur let out a long, slow, breath. Perhaps living wouldn’t be so impossible, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just really want re-alivebur to call technoblade a hypocrite
> 
> also if you comment i appreciate you i just dont know how to reply <3

**Author's Note:**

> this was so self-indulgent and also written at 1am POG?  
> As usual: if you see a typo, no you do not <3


End file.
